Jasmine nodded. The change within the sport had been going on for some time. There were all sorts of family packages on offer, and corporate hospitality, and things like that – every single one of them way out of Ampney Crucis’s league.
‘And that Sky telly are going to be moving away from the established BAGS tracks and covering the smaller meetings. But this,’ Peg continued, brandishing the remaining brochure under Jasmine’s nose, ‘is what really sparked it off, pet. That new stadium at Bixford. Look at it – it looks like an art deco mutation of the damn Millennium Dome! And they’re raking it in! And they’ve just pitched for the Platinum Trophy for next February . . .’
Jasmine leafed through the brochure. Bixford was in Essex, in the heart of dog-racing territory, and the Gillespie Stadium had been making the headlines for several months. The new Platinum Trophy race, sponsored by Frobisher’s Brewery, would definitely be the jewel in their cloth cap. She sighed. ‘Yes, well, good luck to them, but–’
The telephone on Peg’s desk shrilled. Peg hurled papers aside in a frantic attempt to locate it. Holding up her hand to Jasmine, she snatched at the receiver. The conversation was brief, cooed, and punctuated by besotted smiles.
‘Ewan,’ Peg said softly, replacing the receiver. ‘He’s done something silly and left Katrina again. He’s coming to stay for a while to let the dust settle. Won’t that be a hoot?’
Jasmine nodded because it would be. She and Ewan had grown up together. Dark, dangerous, delicious Ewan Dunstable, Peg’s beloved nephew, was every woman’s wildest fantasy. He was a serial cheater – but lovely with it. The last time he’d left his wife and holed up with Peg, he and Clara had had an affair that left Ampney Crucis reeling. Andrew absolutely loathed him.
‘Now, back to business.’ Peg patted the golden hair. ‘Where were we before that naughty boy interrupted? Oh, yes. Bixford and the Platinum Trophy . . . Now what we’d thought – me and Roger and Allan – was that, if you re agreeable, we’d pool Benny’s legacy money together, give this place a bit of a spruce up, and rename it the Benny Clegg Stadium.’
‘Oh!’ Jasmine fumbled in the sleeve of her T-shirt for a tissue. ‘Oh, Peg! That would be absolutely brilliant.’
Peg leaned across the desk and jabbed at the Bixford brochure. ‘And, once we’ve done that, we thought we’d really put the old place on the map, and give these Essex geezers a run for their money, by applying to stage the Frobisher Platinum Trophy!’
Chapter Three
Eighty miles away from Ampney Crucis, on that same June evening, April Padgett was having one of the worst nights of her life – and that was saying something. In her twenty-three years she’d managed to have some humdingers.
The Gillespie Greyhound Stadium’s Copacabana Cocktail Bar was packed with its usual designer-dressed Bixford clientele; the air conditioning had packed up; the ice-maker had jammed and immediately defrosted; and someone had been sick behind the token plastic palm tree.
However, far worse than any of these was the sight of Martina Gillespie, April’s boss, behind the bar, with the till wide open, clawing her magenta talons through the takings.
‘You’ve been giving them buggers freebies again!’ Her squawk quite drowned out the soothing tones of Barry Manilow inside the bar, and the orgasmic shouts of the track commentator outside it. ‘Don’t deny it! I’ve been watching you most of the evening. I know what drinks you’ve served and I know what the float was, and I know this till is short! How did you manage it, eh? My back was only turned for five minutes while I went to check on that fracas in the lavs.’
April groaned. Martina Gillespie had eyes like a hawk, a voice like a strangled donkey, and a face like a ferret. A crew-cut in Tequila Sunrise orange, more make-up than Danny La Rue, and copious amounts of post menopausal body-piercing, completed the picture.
Oh God! Why hadn’t she put the money in straight away? Why had Jix appeared in the Copacabana while Martina was sorting out the loo punch-up? Why did she always feel so sorry for him? Why had she given him that damn drink?
April tried smiling. ‘Well, no, it’s not short really. . .’
‘Yes, it is not really!’ Martina shrieked, somewhat ungrammatically. ‘Do you want this bar job, my lady, or don’t you?’
Bloody, bloody stupid question, April thought, still managing to look confused and innocent at the same time. ‘Of course I do, but – ’
‘But nothing!’
A large part of the designer brigade had turned from gawping at the on-track excitement through the huge plate-glass windows, and were listening with interest. As they were all sweating profusely because of the lack of air conditioning and ice, it seemed that a good row might just take their minds off their discomfort.
April shifted her balance on her borrowed Manolo Blahniks, and winced as the circulation started pumping into her toes. ‘I was going to put the money in myself later. I just got busy. Anyway, it was only a Fuzzy Navel – without the ice, of course, because of the machine.’
‘Only a Fuzzy Navel!’ Martina howled, clutching her Versace-clad bosom. ‘Only a Fuzzy Navel! Dear God! Have you any idea how much a Fuzzy Navel costs?’
‘Of course I have. I’ve been working in this bar for long enough to know the price of the damn drinks!’
‘And don’t you come the old acid with me, my girl! I don t want none of your smart backchat, OK?’
God, April thought wearily, Martina was dog-rough under the posh frock. Her vowels, which before the invective had started might have had their origins somewhere around Knightsbridge, were rapidly floating down the Estuary.
‘Look, Martina, it was one drink. Just one drink. And like I said, I was going to put the money in.’
‘Don’t you Martina me, young lady!’ The pointed chin had performed some sort of upward manoeuvre and was nearly touching the beaky nose. The selection of diamond ear-studs all winked under the deep-set ceiling spotlights. ‘I’m Mrs Gillespie to you – understand? And whose bloody freebie was it tonight? Another one of your freeloading pals with a sob story about having lost everything on the last race and – ’
‘Yeah,’ April said, sliding back along the bar, easing her feet. There was no way on earth that she’d tell Martina the drink had been for Jix. It would have meant instant dismissal for both of them. ‘That’s right.’
Martina gave a triumphant snort. ‘I knew it. Well, it’ll come out of your wages, OK? Double.’
Bitch, bitch, bitch, April thought, giving a subservient nod. God, the woman must be wired up to the bloody electronic workings of the till to know exactly how much there was supposed to be at any one time.
‘Martina – er – Mrs Gillespie – I wasn’t trying to steal from you. I fully intended to make the till up at the end of the shift. Oh – and look – I think the ice machine’s working again! Everyone will want drinks.’
They both stared at the contraption in some consternation, mainly because neither of them understood it. However, where it had been dribbling lukewarm water only minutes earlier, it was now crackling and frosty. That was a start.
‘OK.’ Martina, immediately sensing a Gillespie-money-making opportunity slipping away, shoved her cropped head towards April. She looked like an aggressive Swan Vestas. ‘But I’m watching you, my girl. Now, get serving – that’s what you’re paid for!’
‘Cow!’ April muttered under her breath, as Martina teetered out of Copacabana to spread a little happiness elsewhere. ‘Hateful, spiteful, mean-minded cow!’
‘Two Alabama Slammers and a Freddy Fuddpucker.’ A fairly well-known footballer from the lower echelons, with a simpering brunette on each arm, thrust his way to the front of the perspiring queue. ‘And whatever you’ll let me give you, darling . . .’
April mixed the drinks, smiling her professional bimbette smile. Any minute now he was going to mention Long Slow Comfortable Screws, or Screaming Orgasms, or Slippery Knobs – or any of the hundred and one risque names that cocktails had these days. And she would laugh, an
d look coy, and he’d think he was the funniest man since Chaplin with the most original lines since Mark Twain. And then she’d take his money and he’d give her a knowing look and swagger away, and the whole thing would start all over again.
The footballer had one of those little wispy beardy things that David Beckham had made so popular ages before. He stroked it in what he obviously considered a seductive manner, leaning forward across the bar. ‘I bet you’re just dying for a Hard Dick.’
April upped the smile, closed her ears, and mixed the drinks.
Oh, how she hated this job! How she hated the stupid frilly French maid costume – God only knew where Martina thought Copacabana was! – which showed her knickers when she bent over, and the stupid lacy nippie cap which meant that however tightly she screwed up her curly fair hair, tendrils of it always escaped. And how she hated the loud, rude people she had to serve, and the even louder and ruder people she had to work for.
One day, she thought, viciously shaking a Kaytusha Rocket for a girl with pink hair and crossed eyes, she’d be out of here. But not yet, of course. Not until she’d saved enough money to achieve her goals.
One day, she thought, as she poured the concoction into a glass and added two umbrellas, a sparkler, and a selection of impaled fruit and the cross-eyed girl didn’t say thank you, she’d get as far away from Bixford as possible.
One day, when her debts were paid and her savings account was full, she’d move to the country and have a house of her own, with a garden, and a dog, and a proper family ... It was the dream that kept her going: the dream that made working at three jobs a day, nearly every day of the week, even remotely bearable.
The course commentator was announcing the last race of the evening, and the cocktail crowd all swarmed towards the doors, either to savour the atmosphere from the glass and chrome terraces, or to place their bets with the Tote behind the restaurants. None of the designer crowd who frequented the Copacabana, April was sure, ever went trackside to part with their money; they probably didn’t even know that there were ranks of bookies on the rails. Greyhound racing at Bixford, for the cocktail brigade, was purely incidental.
She listened to the fruity amplified words, extolling the qualities of each of the dogs, with a thump of pleasure. Another half-hour at most, and then all she had to do was clear up, cash up, and go home.
An hour later, with a black shrug over the top of the frilly maid outfit, the till dutifully balanced, and everything in the Copacabana neat and tidy, April stumbled down the series of spiral chrome staircases. The borrowed Manolo Blahniks were crippling her, but at least she’d managed to wrench off the stupid cap and shake her hair free. The crowds hadn’t quite dispersed, and there were still raucous shouts echoing from the shadows as she slipped out of the main doors and into brilliant splashes of floodlighting.
The stadium was lovely like this, she thought, picking her way through an ankle-deep pile of discarded betting slips and fast-food containers: like a huge palatial oceangoing liner, towering into the hot night sky, with lights gleaming from a thousand windows. Oliver Gillespie had certainly hit on a winner, siting the stadium as he had between Romford and the M25, and its art deco design meant it was visible for miles. Oliver, she’d decided when he and Martina had interviewed her for the Copacabana, was OK. A bit bluff and brusque, but straight enough – for a self-made spiv, that was.
Oliver Gillespie had made his fortune during the Thatcher years of enterprise for all, by installing snack-food vending machines in an epidemic rash across the country’s motorway service areas. There probably wasn’t a prepacked pasty not disgorged by a Gillespie Guzzler anywhere in the country. But for all that, and his other more sinister sidelines, Oliver had proved to be a fair employer. However, Martina the shrew was a completely different matter.
April had sensed that Martina, in a desperate attempt to shake off her Canvey Island roots, was always going to lord it over her employee. And she’d been right. Martina had made her life hell. If it hadn’t been for the dream, April would have chucked it all in ages ago.
April paused in the darkness, and lit a cigarette. It was her one luxury. Ten cigarettes lasted her for nearly four days if she rationed them to one in the morning with her first cup of coffee, one last thing at night with a glass of plonk before she went to bed, and this one – the best one of all – immediately she had finished her five hours in the Copacabana. She loved the almost-silence after the frenzy, the smell of the dogs, and the lazy, soporific chat from the bookies as they packed up their carpet bags.
If ever a girl deserved a shot of nicotine, she thought, dragging the smoke into her lungs with relish, she did. Especially tonight. She smiled good-nights at a posse of security guards as they passed, their backs to her, poking underneath the stands for inebriated punters or bombs or both. She listened to the excited yelps from the kennels as the last greyhounds were reunited with their owners and swished off in luxury in the back of four-wheel drives. She watched the litter-pickers start their rounds, and the groundsmen with their motorised rakes chug round the track. All the after-the-show people were springing into action, which meant that Jix should have finished his shift soon too. Not much longer to wait.
April had been doing this for two years, ever since Oliver Gillespie had piled his Guzzler fortune into the born-again glamour world of greyhound racing, and opened the Bixford stadium. It was close to her flat, the hours suited her and slotted in nicely with her other two part-time jobs, and she usually got some tips, which she secreted away in a Roses chocolate tin under her bed. She loved the greyhounds too. The racing side of Bixford wasn’t of much interest, mainly because she’d never had enough spare cash to gamble with, but the dogs themselves were gorgeous.
She was captivated by their lean muscled beauty, their good humour, the way they always laughed at their handlers, their enthusiasm, and their huge, beautiful eyes. She’d decided early on that when the cottage in the country with the roses and the family became a reality, the dog frolicking on the manicured lawn would definitely be a greyhound.
She was just grinding out her cigarette stub with a toe of one of the Manolo Blahniks, when Jix, dressed as always in purple velvet flares, a soft black leather jacket and more bangles than Accessorize, arrived to escort her home.
‘You shouldn’t be smoking.’ He flicked his hair from his eyes and looked accusing. ‘You said you’d stop on New Year’s Eve.’
‘I said a lot of things on New Year’s Eve, most of them inebriated rubbish. Anyway, it’s my only vice – unlike some . . .’
Jix laughed. ‘Touché. Do I gather that Martina sussed out the Fluffy Navel?’
‘You do. She did.’ April fell into step beside him. ‘And she was not best pleased.’
‘You didn’t tell her it was for me?’
‘Course not. Do you think I’m mad? Look, she thinks I’m the dregs of the Gillespie setup – but you. . . She grinned at him. ‘You’re definitely the underclass’s underbelly.’
‘Cheers. And you should have let me pay.’
‘It was my treat. You deserve it. It was just a shame Martina had to be playing I-spy. ’
Because they had flats in the same house, Jix always walked home with April. He said it wasn’t safe for her to be wandering around Bixford’s back streets so late at night. She secretly thought that, should push come to shove, she would probably be the one to protect Jix. Tall, slender to the point of skinny, with long silky hair and the pale, beautiful, androgynous face of a Jonathan Rhys Meyers clone, Jix looked far too delicate and otherworldly ever to inflict any physical damage on anyone.
When she’d first moved into the flat below his, Jix had been like a walking directory. Not only had he pointed out the places to go, and those it was best to avoid, but he’d also – when it became essential to her survival – helped her find all three of her part-time jobs. Jix, it turned out, knew everyone and everything in Bixford. He’d apparently started working for Oliver ten years previously – at the tender
age of fifteen – and had been involved not only in the Guzzlers, but several other less edifying Gillespie enterprises throughout Essex. Jix was now on the Gillespie Stadium books as a financial assistant. Jix, April had decided long ago, was the least likely-looking debt-collector that she had ever seen.
They left the stadium, and turned into a narrow street of dark-windowed, three-storey houses, boarded-up shops that had once sold meat and veg and knitting patterns to the older generation and were now the graffiti-ists’ dream, and Antonio’s Pasta Place, which was still open. The scents of garlic and red wine floated out into the heavy darkness, the candles guttered on the tables, and several Bixford winners were doing justice to ravioli and chips.
April waved at Antonio and his wife, Sofia, through the open door.
‘Don’t be late in the morning!’ Antonio called in a broad Southend accent.
‘As if!’ April called back.
The exchange was the same every night. To April it was as routine as brushing her teeth. Comforting, really. By midday she’d be dressed in a short black skirt and neat white blouse and be serving pasta to Antonio’s business lunchers. Bixford was rapidly becoming very fashionable, like Stepney and Walthamstow, and the streets were buzzing with bright young city traders, or twentysomethings all excited at making Internet millions. Soon, she supposed, the boarded-up shops would become cybercafés and multimedia takeaways and estate agents. It was another really good reason for leaving Bixford as soon as possible.
‘You got your key?’ Jix asked as they stopped outside number 51. ‘I don’t want to wake the boys upstairs by ringing the bell.’
April fumbled in her pocket and, finding the key, let them into the hall. Number 51 was divided into three flats: hers on the ground, Jix’s above, and the top one shared by Joel and Rusty, a mixed race gay couple who worked from home in aromatherapy and ethnic cooking respectively. The hall always smelled as though someone were taking a bath in a curry house.
Nothing to Lose Page 3